


Michael Jones, Stunt Driver

by slowmobanana



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Action, Comedy, Fake AH Crew, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 02:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9637484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slowmobanana/pseuds/slowmobanana
Summary: “You ever see the movie Drive?” Michael asked, adjusting the coat on his shoulders. Lindsay huffed a noise of affirmation. “It's like that. I'm Ryan Gosling. Except I'm not at all like Ryan Gosling, and this is nothing like Drive.”There was a moment of silence. “Does this make me Carey Mulligan?”“Sure, but you're hotter.”--Los Santos, the City of Saints, celebrities, and crew of the most famous action movies ever. Michael is one of those crew members. More specifically, a half-renown stunt driver who's done many famous movies. He loves his career, his paycheck, and his to-be wife and things couldn't possibly be better. So, it sucks when he is mistaken for someone else and accidentally kidnapped by the infamous Fake AH Crew. They won't let him go now that he's seen their faces; he's wanted by the police; and his wedding is in less than a month, so it will take all of Michael's stunt skills to survive this adventure. It's just too bad that real life is nothing like the movies...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, look at me starting something I won't finish. Whoops. Oh, well. Also, don't ask me how I got this idea because I don't know how. I don't know how this will go or how constantly it will be updated. Double whoops. Also, this first chapter was not as funny nor as great (or as paced) as I would like. Triple whoops!  
> On with the story.

The engine revved loud and thick, black smoke puffed out of the exhaust pipe. Dark eyes, hidden behind the visor of a bright red and white helmet, darted to the rear view mirror. One hand rested on the leather wheel and the other gripped the gear shift half-tightly. Controlled breaths. Inhale; _one, two, three_ seconds. A steady, slow, but pounding pulse pumping anticipation through his veins. Exhale; _one, two, three, four, five_.

A voice cracked through his headset. “Alright, whenever you're ready.”

Inhale; _one, two, three_.

He revved the engine once again.

Exhale; _one, two_ – his left foot rested on the clutch – _three, four_ – he regripped the steering wheel in his fingers – _five, si–_

He shoved the gear into first and slammed on the gas. The candy red Audi jerked forward violently, quickly. He shifted the car into second once the speedometer broke fifteen, pushing the car to nearly five thousand rotations per second. Twenty miles an hour. Thirty miles. Forty. Fifty. Sixty. He shifted the car into third gear, fourth gear, then stopped at seventy miles an hour.

The car flew towards the blue split ramp. The driver moved his hand from the gear shift to the steering wheel and gripped tight. His stomach tightened by habit, the adrenaline slipping into his blood as the ramp neared. He released the gas, pulling the gear shift into neutral, and let fate take control.

Rubber hit the ramp, the left side wheels catching on the raise and the ramp launched the vehicle into the air. The car barreled rolled through the air, under pipes and mechanicry turned to the sky three times before the mechanical beast began it's decent towards the pavement again.

The world spun around him and he did not so much as blink, instinctively finding the gear shift again as the ground came closer. The world was still sideways when the opposite ramp came into view. As calculated, the wheels struck the ramp. The car bounced, the rear bumper scratching the ramp briefly before all four tires made proper contact with the ground and stayed so.

He hit the brakes, pulled the e-break, and spun the wheel. The car skidded sideways, sliding loudly for several seconds before it finally ceased, rocked to the side once, and stilled.

“Cut!”

Michael exhaled though his nose, the muscles in his shoulders relaxing. He pulled the helmet off his head, throwing it to one side. Sweat dripped down from his forehead to his cheeks, curls sticking to his skin thickly. He fell back against the leather seat and rolled the window down to let the cool night air into the cabin. Exhausted hands rested on his lap, letting his rapid heart fall and settle into it's resting pace. Patiently, he waited until the assistant director approached the window and leaned in. “Boss says we're done for now, Michael. Come back tomorrow. We need to shoot some stuff in the day, then you'll be good for your contract.”

Michael nodded, offering a curt, “Cool,” so the assistant would leave – which he did. With a deep inhale, he grabbed the handle and pulled it; the door opened nearly on it's own and he stepped out. His eyes flickered to the stunt director, a tall man with black, thick-rimmed glasses and thin, kept stubble around his cheeks and lips, who was speaking with the movie director, Mr. Hullum. The stunt director spoke expressively with his hands, gesturing to the candy car vividly, and Hullum listened carefully with his finger against his chin, nodding thoughtfully once in a while.

The crew moved quickly to restore everything as it had been before; the mechanic approached Michael and opened his palm without a word. The stunt driver tossed the keys to the man and continued towards the crew rest area. He spoke small talk with some of two of the cameramen, then made his silent leave.

A few moments later, he was out of sight from the location and back into real world – the way he liked it. Sure, Los Santos was a crime-ridden city with a shitty reputation, but he had yet to really experience said reputation first hand and he hoped it would stay that way. He located the parking space rented to the production company and instinctively began towards where he had parked his car. Recalling the distance to his car, he opted now would be the best time to make a phone call.

He whipped out his cell phone, tapped a few buttons, and held it up to his ear. By the time she picked up, he could already see his car. “Hey, Lindsay, fucking took you long enough to answer,” he snapped, but even he could hear himself smirking vicariously through his voice.

“I'm sorry,” she chuckled. “My phone was in the other room.”

“Other room!? That thing is glued to your hip.”

“I guess the glue wore off. Gotta reapply it.”

Michael snickered. “I was gonna say,” he said as he approached the driver side door and jammed the key into the lock.

“Gorilla glue,” she offered thoughtfully.

He slid into the car and shook his head. “You wanna be able to use it, though. Gorilla glue it to your hip, you'll never get it off!”

“That's true.”

A placed the key into the ignition but didn't turn the key, opting to lean back against the seat instead. “They said I'll be good to leave tomorrow,” he started, his head falling to the leather. “and we're shooting during the day. So, soon as they're done with me, I'm fucking outta there.”

“Perfect,” Lindsay chirped. Something crackled through the phone. “I've already found you a job for next month.”

“Knew you would.” He grabbed the seat belt and pulled it across his chest. “ _Please_ tell me it's with Michael Bay. He'll have some intense shit for me.”

She hummed uncertainly. “No, it's not Bay. But, it is some indie film maker who's willing to talk with you about possible stunts. So, whatever you wanna do, I'm certain you can run it by him and see what can be done.”

Consideration, then Michael nodded. “Sure. Must have a damn good budget.”

“They're probably blowing it all on you.” And Michael laughed. “Seriously, though,” she continued. “This will be good for you. Hopefully some laid back work. I heard Hullum had some plans for you.”

“Did a triple barrel roll today. I dunno how much harder it could get.”

“Geezus!” she exhaled. “I told him not to kill you.”

“Work is work! I can't just say no.”

“You don't want to say no,” she corrected. “You hear about a motorcycle through a ring of fire and you tell them to show you the bike. You just can't say turn away a good stunt.”

“Because they're few and far between!” he retorted, though he knew she was entirely right. He had been trying to make a conscious habit of being more aware of the stunts he was agreeing to, but he would forget every time and agree blindly to the first interesting thing he heard. “Also, I look damn cool and you love it.”

“I love bad boys, but you don't need to break your arm to prove it to me.” A beat. “Please, just... come home in one piece, alright? I'm not getting married in a hospital.”

Michael sighed, catching the concern edging the final word. “I don't wanna get married in a hospital either. So, there.”

“Yes, I'm glad we're on the same page.”

He could hear her chuckle through the ear piece and he sunk into the seat a little more. “Anyways, I've gotta drive now,” he said, after a moment of silence. “I'll give you a shout when I'm on my way home.”

“Alright.” Her voice dropped with disappointment and his shoulders sank. “Well, have a good night. Sleep tight and don't let the bed bugs bite!”

He chortled. “Goodnight, Lindsay.”

“Goodnight, Michael.”

He pulled the phone away from his ear and ended the call. Soon, he was in silence, staring at his phone dumbly for a moment as he considered what it was he wanted to do with it, before tossing the cell onto the passenger seat and turning the key.

The sedan rumbled to life, not as smooth or quiet as the Audi he had spent all day driving – but it was familiar and comfy in this rusted and dusted city and he was grateful for it. He pulled the car into drive and barely tapped the gas when a blond man emerged suddenly from the shadows and jumped away. Michael slammed the brakes; the man in front of his car flailing his arms stupidly. _What the fuck?_ he could infer.

“Watch where you're fucking going!” he bellowed from inside the car, but he was promptly ignored by the man who just skipped out of the way half-nervously. “Holy shit.” He set the car forward in motion and pulled out of the parking spot.

Los Santos was a supposedly nice city, the place of famous faces and fantasy life. While Michael was confident in his work as a stunt driver, he never thought he would be gracing Vinewood with his skills and he had come to rather enjoy his time in Los Santos, even if it would only be brief. He wondered if he should take a few extra days just to himself, but he discarded the thought and considered his trip home the following cities. For now, he would grab himself a bit to eat before heading back to the hotel.

“Siri, take me to... Um, fuck. How about Dominoes?”

“No results for, 'Um, Duck Halibut Dominoes'.”

“Fuck you, Siri.”

Night had fallen some few hours ago and Los Santos's nightlife was starting to bustle. Scantily clad woman of various ages were waving down shady-looking businessmen and cooing at the cars that stopped for red lights. He had been driving for nearly a good ten minutes and he had come to the conclusion Siri was trying to get him murdered (like the plot to some shitty horror movie), but it wasn't too terribly long before he could spot the Dominoes on the left side of the street.

“Fucking finally,” he mumbled, pulling up to the red light, flicking on the appropriate turn signal.

Then the passenger door opened. The barrel of a gun was in his face. Icy eyes through the holes of a black skull burned into his skull. The skull said something but it was muffled by the mask. Michael lifted his hands and leaned back. “W-What?” he stammered, squinting an eye at him. “I can't understand you with the-- the thing...”

The skull mumbled something else and Michael just stared blankly at him. A muffed curse and the man pulled his mask halfway up his face. “Dammit. I said, drive!”

In the rear view mirror, red and blue lights burst to life, sirens screaming danger to the world. The light turned green. Then the skull yelled again and Michael jumped visibly, jerking his hands to his steering wheel and slamming a foot down on the gas. The sedan jerked forward, shaking unhappily with the sudden mistreatment. The tires squealed, the transmission roared, the gun fell from the skull's grasp, and off they were, cutting off some poor bastard making a left on the other side.

“Oh, God; oh, God; oh, God,” Michael chanted as they sped down the road, cars pulling and swerving to the side to avoid being caught up in the chase. “What are we gonna--” The skull mumbled something through the mask again and Michael threw a hand in the air. “What are you saying!?”

The man pulled the mask up again. “I said not to worry! Just fucking drive! How is that so difficult for you to understand!?”

Michael's voice hit a new pitch, sputtering out several constants before finding a word. “Oh, I dunno, I don't wanna fucking die?!”

All to suddenly, the car behind them exploded and the stunt driver yelled in panic. The back tires of the sedan skidded sideways from the force of the impact and Michael yanked the steering wheel to the side to prevent spinning out, pulling the e-brake in desperation when he oversteered the car and spent far too long correcting it.

Once the tires were straight again, the driver pushed the car as quick as he could make it go and pulled onto the highway. The skull glanced over his shoulder, checking for anymore followers, then pulled up a radio from his jacket pocket and spoke into it. A few moments later, a voice came through the radio, spitting an annoyed, “Fucking take off the mask, Ryan! No one can understand what the hell you're saying!”

The man pulled the mask off altogether this time and threw it on the dashboard, wiping subconsciously at his face and smearing the remnant of face paint across his nose and cheeks. “I _said_ , we have the guy. We'll be on our way to the safe house. Thanks for the back-up, Vav.”

“Cheers,” came a new voice.

Michael glanced sideways at the man silently, both hands gripping the wheel, trying to steady his rapid breathing. Controlled breaths. Ryan's attention switched from the radio to the driver, shifting to sit back against his seat. He pulled the seat belt over his chest and retrieved the gun from the floor. “Alright. Slow down. We've got time. Take us to the Docks.”

“What are we-- Why?”

Ryan cast a sideways glance. “You know why, Michael,” he said darkly.

The driver silenced and fell back against his seat, gulping audibly.

Then, suddenly, and rather casually, “Hey, think we could stop at Dominoes? I'm kinda hungry.”

And Michael sighed.

 


End file.
